


A Lesson in Compassion

by koganewest



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Hurt Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, M/M, Oblivious Simon, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, This Is Sad, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, and simon unknowingly hurts him a lot, baz is really sad, do not be fooled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 13:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koganewest/pseuds/koganewest
Summary: Five times Baz did something nice for Simon, and one time Simon repays him.





	1. Chapter 1

**BAZ**

We're barely a few months into our first year when Snow tells me for the first time that he wishes I was dead.

Granted, I had been awful to him. I’d spelled the drawers to his dresser closed, leaving him in his nightclothes when he needed to have a meeting with the Mage. He's frustrated and angry — I can sense the inevitable threat of his magic in the air and it threatens to choke me, but I don't relent. 

“What will the Mage think when you don't show up?” I taunt, twirling my wand between my fingers. “He'll finally realize that you're a fluke, Snow. He'll finally give up on you.”

The smoke between us thickens. He wrinkles his eyebrows furiously but doesn't respond. He can't fight what I've done. I've always been much more capable than him when it came to spells: although he's more powerful than I am, he's much less controlled. He can't undo my magic. 

“He'll abandon you, Snow. You'll be even more of an orphan than you were before.”

Then, he goes off. 

I try not to show my panic as he yells, screaming like a bloody mad man, cursing me and my existence. His eyes widen, and I think he looks a little like a rabid animal. I pretend not to be scared as he practically growls at me. “I wish I never came here. Actually— I wish you were dead!”

 _I wish I were too,_ I think morbidly. _I cannot wait until the day you finally end me, Simon Snow._

He leaves the room before I can say anything more, still fuming and smoking. I wish his flames would consume me, put me out of my misery. The irony amuses me. I'm flammable, but I'm drawn to his flames, and I can barely even fight it anymore. 

I undo the charms because I'm weak. Because I feel slight remorse for what I said. I deal with the mess he's left behind because I should. Because I feel responsible. 

Because, as much as I don't want to admit it, I'm falling for him. 

Within minutes, he's back in the room, seeming to realize that he can't exactly go far when he's in his pajamas. He seems to have calmed a little, though, since his magic is no longer overpowering. Without a word, he sits on his bed, raking his hands through his hair wildly. 

I consider speaking up. I consider letting him know that I'm done torturing him for now. 

Instead, I just watch him. 

“You're cruel,” he says after a while, staring down at his hands in his lap. I watch him shake his head despairingly, and his curls fall forward gracelessly. “You're just _miserable_ , Baz.” 

I don't respond, and he doesn't speak again. He stands and tries again to open the drawers. They do. His shoulders slump — in relief and exhaustion. Magic saps him of energy, I've noticed. It makes him weak and tired and _vulnerable._

I want to hold him, but instead I leave the room so I don’t have to see him change clothes.

* * *

It isn’t until our third year together — when we come back from the summer holiday — that his nightmares get really bad. 

He’d always slept restlessly; that wasn't anything new, certainly. I’ve been woken up by his movements more times than I’d care to acknowledge, but nothing about his nightmares worried me. After all, I had them as well — much more often than he did. 

Apparently, though, that had changed. 

I’d noticed his sleeping patterns had taken a turn for the worse when he wakes up one night, _screaming._ That had never happened before. It continued all through that first week, every single night, until now. Now, I’m sick and tired of not getting sleep because he isn’t. I’ve got to do something to at least try to fix this. 

So, when he goes to bed, I don’t bother doing the same. I’m just going to stay up and wait. 

Barely an hour passes before he’s tossing and turning under his covers. I briefly panic — what do I do and why didn’t I plan ahead of time? — before I just decide to wake him. Maybe if he’s pulled from the dream in the middle of it, he won’t have any for the rest of the night. 

I could shake him. I could call his name. I could run my fingers through his stupidly golden curls until he wakes up from my touch. 

Instead, I find a textbook. And I drop it from above my head. 

The speed with which he sits up is both impressive and comical. His hand grabs at his hip, ready to summon that damn sword, and his eyes are huge and startled. I hear him start to whisper that poem for his sword when I realize that he doesn’t have the eyesight I do. I can see him, but he can’t see me. 

“Snow, it’s me, relax. It’s me,” I tell him, trying to settle him down. He’s quiet for a while. I watch him close his eyes, let go of a deep breath, and slump his posture. His shoulders fall. 

“Oh,” is all he says, and then he seems to process what I've said. He puts his hand back for the sword and stands from his bed, looking blindly around for where my voice is coming from. “The Anathema, remember? Don't try anything, you bloody idiot.”

“I'm not, I'm not! It was an accident, Snow,” I assure him hastily before he goes off on me. I light a small fire above my hand so he can see. 

The soft orange light illuminates his face in a way that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. I just stare at him. And he stares back at me with wider eyes. Everything about him is golden, fiery, _warm_ — once again, I'm helplessly drawn in. 

“Why are you awake?” He asks softly, like he actually gives a shit. 

Of course, I'm a fool, so I deflect his concern and find the most colorful insult I can possibly think of. He practically growls at me, and I dismiss it with nonchalance and get back into bed. 

After a while, he curls up again under the blankets, burying his face into his pillow. 

He sleeps. He doesn't dream.

* * *

Snow has been staring at the same damned assignment all day, and it’s driving me crazy. 

He hasn't even left the room since we woke up, so I know he hasn't eaten anything the entire day. It's Sunday, so I don't have much else to do beside watch him agonize over some Political Science essay. I consider offering to help but decide against it. 

“Will you quit plotting my demise?” He growls, snarling. He doesn't lift his gaze to look at me, though. He just keeps his eyes on his paper. “What are you staring at?”

I become defensive. God forbid I was concerned for him. 

Then I remember he thinks I despise him — actually, I kind of do. I should. 

“I'm just wondering how anyone could possibly think you're the Chosen One?” I laugh coldly, trying to get a rise out of him. He glares up at me, dark and smoldering and infused with his magic, then rolls his eyes. 

I think that he must be hungry. He hasn't eaten all day. 

“Go to hell,” he responds, so I gather my stuff and head out of the room. I hear him mutter something to himself — most likely cursing my existence. I make sure to slam the door on my way out. 

I find myself in the dining hall without even thinking about it, and fortunately, it’s nearly empty. Only a few people are gathered at the far ends of the room, so I take my place in the middle so people see me. I’ve always been dramatic; I've always liked to be the center of attention. 

I read my textbook for a little while until I get bored, so I decide to get a snack. 

I stare for a long time at what’s being offered, and none of it looks appetizing. There are some hashbrowns and a few leftover biscuits — and one last cherry scone. 

I pick up the damn scone and a bottle of water for Snow because I'm a spineless, lovesick fool.

And he hasn't eaten all day. 

I don't return to our room for another hour, though, because I do have a _little bit_ of self-control left. I wander around looking threatening until my feet are tired, and then I go back to the room. 

Snow is asleep on his textbook. 

I allow myself exactly one minute to look at him — to look at his golden hair and freckled skin and relaxed eyes and delicate lips. His head is propped up by his arm, and his curls fall on his forehead messily. And then I look away. 

I leave the cherry scone next to his arm; then I disappear into the bathroom to shower for at least twenty minutes. 

The scone is gone when I come back. So is Snow. 

I try not to let it bother me.

* * *

We're in our fifth year when an awful flu goes around Watford. Dev and Niall got it nearly days apart. Bunce got it before they did. Now, Wellbelove has it — meaning it’ll be merely hours before Snow comes down with it as well. 

Of course, I don't really care. I won't get it; I never get anything. 

But Snow is unbearable when he's sick. 

He refuses to get out of bed to do anything, but he doesn't really sleep. He just tumbles around fitfully for days. And he whines. 

He's never been one to complain much about his situation — which is admittedly kind of impressive since he was quite unlucky in life — but when he got sick, it was much different. He whined about anything and everything. He also tried to order me around: _Baz, stop doing this,_ or _Baz, get me that_. Usually, I'd just do as he said so he'd shut his mouth and sleep. 

There was nothing worse than when Simon Snow was sick. 

I notice the signs of it before he does, but I don't say anything about it. I notice he takes a longer shower (for the achy muscles) and he stops reading early (for the headache) and he doesn't even open the window before bed (for the chills). 

His timing sucks. Tonight, I desperately need to hunt, because it's been a few days since I last went down to the catacombs — I've been caught up with homework and I don't like that he follows me down there. I've had to become more careful and stealthy. Actually, I should feed tonight while he doesn't have the energy to search for me. 

I just feel bad leaving. I know he's going to wake up sick. 

And I'm right. Barely minutes after he falls asleep, he's up again, running from his bed to throw up into the toilet. 

I groan. Now, I definitely can't leave. There are a million things that could go wrong, a million ways he could end up dead: he could fall and hit his head on the tub, he could choke on his vomit, or he could shrivel up and dehydrate if no one forces him to drink water. 

Okay, maybe those were quite a stretch. 

But if he ends up dead or injured and I'm not around, I'll get in trouble. Or the Anathema could expel me for some stupid shit — like roommate negligence, which is also probably not realistic.

I need to hunt, but I can't leave him.

Crowley, I know he'll be the one to finally end me, but I didn't think it'd happen in this manner (or so soon). 

After a few minutes, he stumbles back into our room, looking nearly as pale as me and twice a sickly. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — _disgusting_ — and sits on the edge of his bed. I'm doing the same on mine already. 

He stares at me. 

“Aren't you going to disappear into the night?” He questions, but his usual sarcasm is as weak as he looks. “Or are you going to stay here and torture me even more?”

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes. “Or I’ll consider torture.”

He's quiet for a while, just studying me. I get annoyed after a minute and stand up, pacing with my arms folded over my chest. I'm hungry. And ansty. Especially with him looking at me like that. 

Finally, he curls up beneath his covers. 

“Baz, turn the light off,” he says, softly, but with that typical whiny edge to his voice. I spell it off, and he seems to relax. I can still see him slightly, but I can't make out the details on his face. 

He tosses and turns all night, and I don't sleep at all. 

But at least he does.

* * *

I'm covered in mud on the football pitch on a dreary weekday afternoon when I get summoned to the Dean’s office. 

My first thought is that they figured out my secret, that they have enough proof to confirm Snow’s suspicions, that they know I’m a vampire. Maybe someone else followed me around after dark. Maybe Snow got them solid proof. I’m terrified for a moment. I’m frozen by the idea of being expelled and removed from the community. 

I’ve been so careful, though. There’s no way they found out. 

The way to the Dean’s office is somewhat confusing, but I make it there faster than I ever have before. Regardless of the vampire accusations, the idea of being in trouble makes me so anxious. 

I knock on the door hastily, and it opens nearly immediately. The Dean — a short, bespectacled man with mousy brown hair — sits behind his desk and tries his best to look menacing. It doesn’t work. I’m no longer frightened by this all. I’ve got nothing to hide. Nothing they can figure out, at least. 

I sit in the chair opposite him and dramatically cross my legs for good measure, to show I don’t care. I keep my expression even. 

“I’ll get straight to the point, Basilton,” he drawls monotonously, looking me up and down with boredom. “Does Penelope Bunce spend any time in the room you share with Simon Snow? We have reason to believe that she can bypass the barriers we’ve set to keep females away from male residency.”

This catches me slightly off guard, but I try not to let it show in my face. 

The answer, of course, is yes. Snow doesn’t know I know this, but it’s impossible not to notice. Things on my side of the room are slightly altered sometimes, and I know Snow doesn’t have the guts to do it. Or a reason to. 

That, and my sense of smell is much more sensitive than the average human. She’s lucky her perfume reminds me of my aunt.

“I know nothing of that,” I assure him, but I don’t quite know why I do it. Maybe I’m just trying to make up for the chimera incidence. He still thinks I tried to kill him. Now, I’m protecting him. “Nothing of the sort has happened. I would know if there was a girl in our room — especially one as unapologetically noticeable as Bunce.”

He seems content with my answers, so after a few formalities, he lets me go back to football practice. 

I take out my inner turmoil on the ball at my feet and my teammates around me. They don’t as where I’ve been and I don’t tell them. Now, Snow is sitting on the sidelines, just watching me, waiting for me to make one wrong step so he can turn me in. 

Some things never change. He still thinks I’m a monster. 

(He still _knows_ I’m a monster.)


	2. Chapter 2

**SIMON**

Sometimes, Baz cries in his sleep.

Maybe he isn’t actually sleeping — maybe he just cries when he thinks _I’m_ sleeping. In fact, he’s usually pretty quiet about it, like he’s hiding a secret, like he can’t stand to have a moment of vulnerability. Like he doesn’t want me to wake up and hear him. 

Except I usually do.

And I tell myself I don’t care that he’s upset because…well, because I hate him. I tell myself I don’t care what he feels because he’s a monster. 

But he’s human. 

I know that as much as I know anything else that is true and consistent in my life. I also know that he’s hurting, but that there’s nothing I can do to change that. Even if I wanted to. Which I definitely don’t. 

I should be happy. After all, I usually want him dead. I should be happy that he’s hurting.

I’m not. 

He rarely gets upset. In fact, I have never seen tears on his face at all. I’ve only ever _heard_ him cry — and that’s a very uncommon occurrence in itself. He never lets his guard down, never shows emotion, never lets anyone see him when he’s vulnerable. It’s like he tries not to have friends...or any meaningful connection with people in any capacity whatsoever.

He lets out a pathetic sob, but I can tell he’s trying to muffle it with his blanket. 

I’ve never heard a seventeen-year-old sound so _sad_. 

“Baz,” I whisper, and he freezes. He does his best to hold in a heaving breath, but he fails pathetically. I know he’s blatantly ignoring me, but I try again anyway. “Baz, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

He doesn’t answer me, but he seems to control himself a little better.

“Baz,” I repeat again, trying to get some kind of reaction from him. Now, I can clearly hear his shaky breathing, like he’s struggling to compose himself. I try again to talk to him. “Hey, come on, what’s—”

_“Fuck off!”_ he roars, and I’m caught off guard by his sudden outburst. He sobs through each word. “Stop pretending to give a shit about me, Snow. Do I need to remind you of our history? You hate me! You certainly don't _care_ about me, Snow, so _fuck off!”_

I want to punch him for sounding so defeated. But he's right. I don't care. I shouldn't care. 

But, Crowley, he sounds so _broken_. 

“But, Baz—” 

“No, no, _no_!” He weeps, repeating the word like it's the only thing he knows how to say. Maybe it's the only thing he can comprehend right now. I can't see him, but I can hear him turn in bed, like he's trying to look me on the eye. “Leave me _alone!_ I just want you to leave me alone!”

I try again to interject, but he shuts me down almost immediately. 

“Promise me something, Snow?” He says unevenly. I nod, forgetting it's dark, but he must see me because he continues. “Be just as apathetic to me tomorrow as you’ve always been.”

“I don't understand, Baz. Why would you want apathy? Don't you want someone to care about y—”

“Yes— no! I don't need _anyone_ ,” he sobs, muffled once again by his blanket. Why is this breaking my heart so much? Why does he sound so irreparably broken? He sounds like he's falling to pieces and he's got no one to catch him. He begs thickly, “Please, promise me?”

“Okay,” I agree. That's all I can say. 

That's all there is to say. 

I fall back to sleep to the sound of his tears.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work ever for snowbaz! i did my best to write like rainbow does, but let me know what you think here or on tumblr (koganewest)!
> 
> (i love baz but i love to hurt him as well)  
> -lily


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